It’s nice to just let go, type, write, speak, and be in a way that feels quintessentially natural and that flows with ease. It’s rare and oddly difficult to find this place of free communication. We strive for structures that can mask our limitations and imperfections, and yet we then have the task of describing their implications. So much of human endeavors seem to bring us away from ourselves as though first-personal experience were inherently unpleasant or uninteresting.
There is a way that the city glows that seems particular to autumn. The lights appear warm and soft with a golden tone, rather than the fierce piercing bluish white that they turn to in the winter. It’s as though we are all waltzing through the twilight haze of a dreamer’s cinematic imagination. The sound of the wind, of footsteps, of leaves blowing, is strong and not yet muted by the snowflakes that diffuse and suspend the acoustic realities of what is really going on.
I remember this night I had with a friend in autumn. He met me at my apartment and we walked all the way to this late-night diner wearing absurdly fashionable coats that weren’t quite equipped to handle the cold. I remember his blue eyes that seemed flooded with memories and awareness. We talked about nostalgia and I had that feeling that I love when I start to feel nostalgia for a moment while I am still immersed in it and I feel both here and there, within and without.
It’s funny. When I think of my life in the city, what I seem to remember most are the walks that I have taken.